Mission Cake with a Capital C
by Naisumi
Summary: Let me sum it up for you: Lance, Scott, and a cake. ^.~ A belated birthday fic for Morwen O'Conner! HAPPY BIRTHDAY, MOR!! *glomps* [slash, lime, L/S] I come dangerously close to devolving into a lemon toward the end O.o so I just ended it...and...yes. Uh


Title: Mission Cake with a Capital C 

Pairing: Lance/Scott, Scott/Lance 

Author: Naisumi 

Rating: PG-13 

Disclaimer: Lance, Scott, the X-geeks, and the Brotherhood aren't mine. Drat. 

Archive: If you want, but could you tell me at least? 

Warnings: SLASH, lime 

  


Notes: This is a belated birthday fic for Morwen O'Conner! HAPPY BIRTHDAY MOR!! ^-^ Here's your lovahly (*coughs* not *coughs*) lime!fic! ^.~ Enjoy! 

Additional Notes: NOT BETAD! ^^ Also, this is my first attempt at writing lime. *coughs* So...be gentle! 

Enjoy, and please give me C&C!!! 

  


"blah." People speak 

  


  


-- 

  


  


  


Lance Alvers was on a mission. 

No, not just _any_ mission. It was the mission of a lifetime--or, at least, the year. He had been overall very responsible with handling it, making all necessary calls as he skipped three of his morning classes and beat up the kid who was hogging the payphone in the C wing. The seismically inclined mutant had taken great pains to maneuver his plans around everyone else's and had so far managed to stay quite inconspicuous in his scheming (though one particular bystander, noticing the reputably badass senior lurking around the vending machines, had commented to his companion that it seemed that the unsavory figure was probably up to no good, if any warning was to be taken from the unfortunate freshman that had been upended into a trashcan for calling his mother about an asthma problem). It was now 1545 hours (a quarter from four, to be exact) and his accomplice was running late. 

Lance was not happy. 

The fruity caffeine-happy speedster that he had--reluctantly--entrusted his cherished mission plans to was usually not late. Usually. Lance fervently hoped, consequently, that no one had challenged Pietro to anything ridiculous, like seeing how many times around the North American peninsula he could run in the space and time of two and a half hours without stopping. However, knowing Pietro, he had probably challenged himself and thus, Lance was effectively doomed. 

As it were, Lance was currently hyperventilating quietly, having resigned himself to a mere simmer after breaking the soda pop machine and gifting Bayville High's meager after-school population with free beverages. He had been on the cusp of an apoplexy since sixth period and was now slowly making his way to having a full-out coronary. 

_I think I'm going to pass out,_ the big, bad former leader of the Brotherhood of (Evil!) Mutants thought queasily as he tried to catch sight of a wiry hyperactive teenager with a shock of white hair. Everything had, so far, been going along the path of the extremely crappy. First, his beloved jeep had died a tragic and violent death by way of peanut butter and banana sandwich (it had somehow gotten into the engine; he'd find the culprit and beat them with his shoe after his initial crisis was over), then, he'd found a disturbing rendition of the Mona Lisa being murdered viciously by a bubbly-looking cartoony chainsaw (courtesy of Todd) _all over_ his Physics homework--which he had finally decided to do because of the rather discouraging capital D in the class--and _then_ his book bag had fallen apart between 8th and 9th period, resulting in him having to staple it together with a somewhat lethal-looking staple gun (and under the equally lethal glare that was so lovingly bestowed upon him by a passing hall monitor). And _now_ Pietro was late. 

_Late_! 

"I need to be canonized," Lance muttered, knuckling his temples and attempting to relieve the mounting sinus tension that was threatening to pulverize his brain like a quarter pound of beef. 

"I don't think canonization really fits you," came an amused voice from behind him and he jumped, frightening a passing freshmen cheerleader, and ripping his backpack a new one. 

"Dammit!" he yelped, did a 360, stared at Scott, then panicked and yelled, 

"Go away!" 

Scott Summers blinked at his boyfriend, startled, and began bewilderedly, 

"What? But I--" 

"Go away, go away, go away!" Lance effectively lost thirty five seconds of his life as he glared about indiscriminately, and beginning to--to put it bluntly--freak out as he saw Pietro start in from the parking lot, a cheery-looking cream and pink box in his arms. 

"Gottagobye," he muttered, sprinted out the doors, caught Pietro midstep, and disappeared around the corner. 

Scott gaped after him, his brain retaining several more wrinkles as he tried to puzzle out his significant other's erratic-chimpanzee behavior. Finally, he concluded that Lance had been spending _way_ too much time with his surrogate family. 

"Maximoff must be seriously warping his mind," the bespectacled mutant grumbled and wandered off to find his car. 

  
  


  


  


Scott Summers was on a mission. 

No, not just any mission. This was a mission upon which his relationship with a certain allegedly notorious Lance Alvers depended on. Considering the alignment of the stars, the moon, and his tennis shoes to the sidewalk, he had woken up rather cheerfully (before his alarm clock) to a wonderful Wednesday morning. That is--a particularly _significant_ Wednesday morning. In other words, with promises of gifts, parties, and wild nights out, it was his one and only eighteenth birthday. 

Now, imagine his surprise when he found his somewhat-dorkish, pseudo-badass and infinitely loving (except in matters concerning the TV remote controller) boyfriend was nowhere to be found in the icy clutches of their second period History class. He had half-expected Lance (otherwise known as Alvers, Lancey, Avalanche, Alvey, 'Look who's so chipper this goddamn morning (not),' and also referred to as 'Hey, it's that senior guy!', 'Run!' and 'Ahh!') to come in the door at any given time with his middle finger for the teacher and an adoring 'Yo, Summers, isn't it your fuckin' birthday?' (as a show, of course--they strictly kept to a hatefully amiable level in public) for him. When Lance _hadn't_ waltzed into the classroom with all his grungy glory, Scott had gotten slightly peeved. His annoyance had steadily increased as said boyfriend had remained absent for the entire day until he reached critical mass of royal pissed offness. 

It didn't help matters that Jean had followed him about as he attempted to prowl the hallways for his MIA significant other--after all, it was a difficult feat for one to seem threatening when one had a rather bubbly redhead clinging to one's arm like a limpet. By the time he had actually found Lance--having been given the heads-up by a traumatized freshman with asthma--he had nearly lost his mind. Fortunately for the salad-bowl-donning mutant, Scott had been momentarily overcome by standard warm and fuzzy feelings at the initial sight of his current steady love interest and so had not immediately flown into a homicidal blow-things-uppy rage. 

Approaching Lance, Scott caught wind of a pitiful-sounding mutter that sounded like, 'I need to be canonized,' which summoned amusing, though disturbing, mental images of a disgruntled eight-year-old Lance in a large white episcopal robe, foot high cardboard imitation Pope's hat, and a large rod, solemnly proclaiming, 'I thus make Monday through Friday holy days of rest--so no more fuckin' school, okay?' 

"I don't think canonization really fits you," Scott said, trying not to laugh as he leaned against one of the vending machines. In response, Lance leapt three feet into the air like a frightened hyena, squealed like a girl, then yelped, 

"Go away!" 

Feelings hurt and slightly bewildered, the chestnut-haired boy asked, 

"What? But I--" 

After screeching 'go away' in rapid succession (and sounding like a howler monkey while doing so), Lance paused, stared out the window with an expression on his face as if the sky were abruptly a startling shade of key lime green, then ran out, a trail of dust and random school supplies scattered on the floor behind him. 

Scott gaped after his oddly jumpy boyfriend for a moment, worked his jaw, then muttered irritably as he stooped down to gather the fallen items, 

"Maximoff must be seriously warping his mind." 

Still miffed about Lance's bizarre behavior, Scott headed for the back of the school, hoping to find his car before Kurt and Jean got to it (Kurt, bless his soul, was a _killer_ on the leather interior). To Scott, the only thing better than sex with Lance (besides orange cream soda, Orbit gum, and sleeping late--until _8:30_ a.m.!--on Sundays) was his car. His car, with its pearl handles on the inside, license plate that said 'VISION,' cherry red and fire engine bright quadruple paint job, varnished-looking finish and spotless windshield. 

_God_, he loved his car. 

When Scott got to the parking lot, however, Jean had already latched onto it and was in the passenger's seat, happily listening to boppy pop music. He wanted to scream. 

"Hey," he said, forcing a broad grin to his lips as he hopped behind the wheel. Jean didn't seem to notice how dejected and peeved he was. 

"Hi, Scott!" she smiled primly, folded her hands in her lap, and tapped her foot to the beat of Britney Spears' dying-cat wails as he turned the ignition. 

"Happy birthday." 

"Thanks," Scott muttered back, pulling onto the road. Some telepath _she_ turned out to be. 

"What are those?" Jean asked, pointing to the ratty old notebook, compass, cruelly gigantic textbook and ballpoint bic pen that Scott had tossed into the back seat. As per Murphy's law, her powers were, for once, not malfunctioning and thus spilling Scott's bitter kindergartenesque thoughts to the wind. 

"Uh. Just some stuff," Scott frowned slightly, feeling a sneeze coming up yet being irritatingly withheld. He scrunched up his nose. 

"I'm going to drop them off first, okay?" Scott brightened slightly at the thought of seeing his boyfriend but was still a little disheartened by Lance's overall Pietro-ish behavior. 

_Eh, whatever,_ He decided and curbed right, ignoring Jean's plaintive and somewhat annoyed, 

"Can't you take me home first?" 

  
  


  


  


"It's great!" Lance gushed. 

"It's Dairy Queen," Pietro noted wryly. 

"And they spelled his name wrong." 

"What?! Those bastards! I'm gonna--!!" 

Pietro rolled his eyes and put the ice cream cake back into the freezer, the carboard box slightly soggy and the plastic looking-window crinkling lightly with the movement. 

"Why'd you decide to go through all this trouble anyway?" the speedster was fast becoming restless, much like a hyperactive hamster. 

"What else would I do?" Lance grumbled, peering into the freezer as if afraid that the cheerily-decorated cake would flick him off then walk off by itself to be devoured by some stray squirrel or melt on the sidewalk. 

"How about making a card?" Pietro suggested, buffing his nails on his shirt and eyeing them critically. 

"Do you honestly believe that Freddy's not going to notice an ice cream cake taking up residence in our fridge?" 

"I won't let him eat it," Lance declared, looking ridiculously protective for someone who was talking about a birthday cake. Pietro rolled his eyes again, though he paused to snicker a little at the mental image of the older boy dressed up in a full suit of armor and hugging a Dairy Queen box to his chest, warily glancing from left to right and left again. 

"Do you know what you've turned into?" the ashen-haired boy grinned, "A pansy." 

"I'm not a _pansy_!" Lance protested, following Pietro into the living room and slinging his busted-open backpack into an armchair. 

"Who's a pansy, yo?" Todd asked from where the amphibianish freshman was perched on the back of the sofa, pale jade eyes glued to the TV screen. 

"Lance," Pietro replied nonchalantly, ignoring Lance's offended, "I am not!" 

"Oh," Todd blinked, looked over at them for a moment, then stared at the TV again. 

"You're a pansy, yo." 

"Shut up!" Lance grumbled, rubbing his forehead, "I'm _not_ a pansy!" 

"Around Summers you are," Pietro said smugly, both hands propped up on either side of his trim waist, "You've turned into a regular lapdog to him, Lancey." 

"I'm not having this conversation," the dark-haired mutant growled and stalked back to the kitchen to continue his vigilance on his prized ice cream cake. 

"Why don't you go and write some more _love letters_ to Summers?" Pietro called after him teasingly before joining Todd on the couch to channel surf. 

Lance rolled his eyes and was about to retort when the doorbell rang. 

"I'm not," he yelled back as he opened the door, "going to wri--Ahh!" Lance panicked at the sight of who was on the front porch and slammed the door shut, squeaking, 

"Go away!" 

  
  


  
  


"OWWW!!" Scott stumbled backwards, clutching his nose, which Lance had accidentally slammed a door into. 

"What the hell are you doing?!" He exclaimed to the now-closed door. However, it came out as, 'Whadellare y'toing?!' 

"Ah, fuch," Scott muttered tipping his head forward and trying to stop the nasal bleeding. After he had managed to stop most of the bleeding, he yelled quite loudly, 

"Well, sheeif Ielp ou ehvere agan!" 

He peeled out of the driveway ten times less coherent than he was when he had first pulled up and headed home with a grumpy Jean (but not before he chucked Lance's school supplies onto the roof and honked several times). 

Upon pulling up to the closed gates of the Institute, Scott leaned out and grumbled snappishly, "Cyclops." 

At least, he _tried_ to say that. 

"Sycleps." 

A large whining sound was heard as the security system suddenly decided that it wanted to be evil and uncooperative. 

"What?" Jean gawked, "Scott, what'd you--?" 

"Voice recognition failure. Authorization required for entry. Intruders will be detained." 

Scott stared in a horror at the approaching scary-laser-widgets, effectively summing up the situation with a loud, 

"CHRAP!" 

  


  


  


  


Pietro tapped his foot on the ground, eyeing Lance with no small amount of incredulity. 

"Did you just slam the door on your boyfriend?" 

"Uh..." Lance, leaning against the front door, had just finished hyperventilating. He slapped his forehead with his left palm at the disheartening realization that he had, indeed, probably pissed off Scott with the not-so-metaphorical slamming of a door in said bespectacled mutant's face. 

"I didn't know what to do!" He said defensively. 

"He would've found out." 

Pietro rolled his eyes, jutted out one hip and scoffed mischievously, 

"Well, _someone_'s not getting any tonight. You'd better not screw this up, Lancey--it took me _fifteen_ minutes to get that cake--and another fifteen to walk back!" 

"Oh, yeah, like you didn't mess around on the way there," Lance shot back, compulsively peering into the freezer again. 

"Just call him and tell him to get over here. This is so boring!" Pietro complained, to which Lance replied, 

"Well, then you three get out of here, unless you wanna stay an' watc--_no_, Pietro, that's not an invitation!" 

Pietro mock-pouted, then beamed, 

"I'll go kidnap Freddy and Toddiekins." 

The dark-haired senior rubbed at his temples as Pietro flounced into the living room, eliciting a startled squawk from Todd as he was suddenly dragged off the couch, before wandering upstairs to change. 

  


  


  
  


Scott fidgeted and glared at the clock. It was 7:07 already, and he had recently just confined himself in his room to properly sulk. His nose was a lot better and he could actually speak normally now, but he was still feeling slightly glum. Even though the rest of the X-men were still downstairs "partying" (it _was_ still a weeknight, after all), he had decided to retire by himself, pleading the excuse of sporting a wounded nose. 

"Vhat's zat got to do vith anyzing?" Kurt had seemed confused. 

"It just...does," Scott had replied cleverly, glancing about shiftily before sprinting up the stairs--nearly tripping and falling on Kitty's discarded scrunchy--to the safety of his room. 

Now that he had reached the haven of his bedroom, however, Scott found himself to be restless. He rolled over on his bed, staring at the ceiling, and heaved a long sigh. The hooded sweatshirt Evan had given him was balled up between his shoulder blades, and he scowled, pulling it out from under him and flinging it across the room. After edgy shifting some more on his comforter and neatly made bed, he tried reading. Unfortunately, his foray into the literary world proved to take a little too much effort due to his vision, and the fact that Kitty had stolen his copy of _Clockwork Orange_, leaving a cheap teen thriller called _The Sleepover_ in its place. Life was cruel. 

Finally, Scott gave up trying to occupy himself and stormed downstairs at 7:31, hopped into his car, and squealed out of the driveway--that is, he tried to, before slowing down to identify himself cautiously at the fickle gate. After waiting impatiently for a family of ducks to cross the road just a few feet from said gate, he arrived at the Brotherhood house, pumped up and ready to get X-meny on Lance's ass--that is, to _kick_ Lance's ass like a giant boot, not just introduce mini Cyclops to Lance's...well. So, he got a little distracted. 

Scott stomped up to the front door--noting with sadistic satisfaction that Lance's motley school supplies were still on the roof--and knocked loudly and pointedly on the door. There was a beat of silence, then it swung open just as Scott opened his mouth to yell heatedly at his boyfriend--only to find himself being kissed rather enthusiastically by his previously MIA significant other. 

"Lanc--?" 

"Happy birthday," Lance beamed at him and drew Scott into the foyer by the hand, leading him to the dinette. 

"C'mon, I have a surprise for you." 

Scott stared at him for a moment, forgetting briefly that he was supposed to be angry at him, then remembered and pulled his hand away, crossing his arms over his chest and coming dangerously close to pouting. 

"No, I'm not going anywhere." 

Lance blinked. 

"But--" 

"I'm mad at you." 

"But..." Lance searched for an appropriate response before saying dumbly, "I have...a surprise for you?" 

Scott turned his nose up and arched his eyebrow pointedly. 

"I'm _mad at you_." 

"What'd I do?" Lance asked, getting slightly annoyed now. 

"You yelled at me." 

Lance gaped at him. 

"I ye--but that was an accident! You--I--oh, get over here," Lance made a face, grabbed Scott by the crook of his arm, and shoved him toward where the dining table was. 

"No! I'm--" Scott halted in his tracks at the sight of the innocuous ice cream cake that graced the middle of the table and proceeded to have a stare-down with the frozen dairy product. He stared at it. It didn't stare back. 

"I...a cake, Lance?" Scott approached it, blinking at the crookedly scrawled 'Happy Birthday, Scot Sommers' on the top of it. 

"Uh...yeah," the amber-eyed boy coughed sheepishly, "Dairy Queen kinda screwed up your name--the bastards--so I'm sorry about that bu--" 

Scott kissed him, thus successfully shutting him up (which was a good thing, anyway, because he was preparing to enter rambling-mode). When the kiss ended, Scott said softly, 

"I haven't had an ice cream cake in a while." 

"Yeah, I know," Lance replied just as quietly, as he sensed that speaking loudly would probably ruin the moment and earn him a sound smack on the head for his troubles. 

"The last time I had one was before my parents..." Scott trailed off, then turned to look at the cake again. 

After several moments of silence passed, Lance cleared his throat and grinned as broadly as he could, 

"So, do you want a piece?" 

Scott shot him an amused look, 

"What do _you_ think?" 

"Well, if that professor of yours hasn't filled you up yet," Lance chuckled and grabbed a plate, handing it to Scott. He carefully slid the prewarmed knife--Pietro had told him that it was a good idea to not use a knife without first running it under hot water; Todd had commented that Pietro must've fallen asleep during a Sara Lee commercial or the Home and Gardens channel again (the last time that happened, the anorexic-looking speedster had created a small army of origami napkin tortoises that effectively invaded Lance's room)--through the ice cream, though he accidentally crumbled some of the chocolate crunchy bit, and managed to get a large slice of the ice cream cake, mostly intact, over to Scott's plate. Then, he got himself a slice, thoroughly maiming it with silverware and knife. 

Scott grinned at him and raised a fork in salute, "Here's to..." 

"Ice cream cake," Lance suggested, grinning back. 

There were a few minutes of uneventful banter and the general eating of ice creamish products, wherein Scott neglected to tell Lance about his missing textbook on the roof (he figured that he'd better not ruin the warm-and-fuzzy moment), then the chestnut-haired mutant accidentally got a bit of ice cream on his cheek. Lance raised an eyebrow, and cocked a finger at him, 

"You have a bit of ice cream there." 

"Oh--what, here?" Scott dabbed at his face with his napkin. 

Lance glowered darkly at his finger, still directed at Scott's cheek, "Damn my pointing skills." 

"What?" Scott blinked. 

"It was a cheap ploy that I was going to use to sneak in a kiss," Lance explained with a sly grin. Scott laughed a little at that, leaning his elbow on the table, 

"Well, Alvers, are you going to start asking permission or something?" 

Lance rolled his eyes and reached over, curled his fingers about the back of Scott's collar, and brought him over for a deep kiss, his tongue teasing its way into the other boy's mouth. Scott tasted like chocolate and vanilla ice cream, with a hint of sweet icing and the distinctive lingerings of citrus that were trademark to him. When their lips parted, they were both panting slightly, and Scott watched Lance with half-lidded eyes behind scarlet panes of ruby quartz, his voice slightly husky as he joked, 

"All that for a bit of ice cream cake, Lance?" 

Lance gulped slightly, then swiped a bit of cream-colored ice cream off of the top of his half-eaten piece of cake, smearing it on Scott's lips before devouring the other's mouth with his own once more. Their hot tongues intertwined and the shock of the cold ice cream melting in the midst of the kiss was more than enough, yet it only kindled the stirrings within him. He tugged Scott closer as he nudged the table out from between them, the wooden legs skidding and squealing a little on the tile floor. Scott carded one hand through the other's shaggy long chocolate hair, standing up fully now and pressing his chest against Lance's as Lance made to stand up as well, fumbling with his chair and finally kicking it across the room. The both of them slowly made their way over to the couch, tumbling onto it in a tangle of limbs as Scott finally succeeded in yanking Lance's shirt off. 

Breaking out of one of many passionate kisses, Scott gasped for breath, nuzzling his cheek against the warm flesh of Lance's neck. The dark-haired boy's hands were creeping up the hem of his shirt, fingers massaging the small of his back and leaving tingles in their midst; trails of icy heat that seemed to warm his blood with sparks of molten electricity. His mouth working soundlessly for a few moments, Scott cradled Lance's face closer as the other nipped at his collarbone before jerking his shirt off over his head. Leaning against Lance, whose hands were now roaming over the already well-know and charted planes and angles of Scott's torso, the bespectacled boy finally asked shakily, 

"What about the cake?" 

Lance paused, then rolled off the other boy briefly, despite the noise of protest that Scott made, and picked up the ice cream cake before making his way back over to the sofa, sliding the plate onto the coffee table with the hiss of ceramic against wood. He smirked and scooped up a finger of the cold treat, 

"Open wide." 

  


  


  


~fin~ 


End file.
